Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → A Veiled Mirror

Lol @MattEmAngel xD

It also makes the last three paragraphs...awkward. Storm, does he do your name justice?

He's a good writer, I'll say that gladly.

But leave me out of anything that tries to cross me over to this. The Storm of Veiled Mirror is a different Storm than me, so I don't want to see any more fanfiction about me *cough* the FGA *cough*.

@StormWalker, thank you! xD And I promise you that the Storm I created is absolutely not intended to be a fanfiction of yours, and nor will this become one! x)

CHAPTER 2: The Nights Past

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Vorana's a quiet place, just as long as you're quiet. Pon is no exception to that rule.

I remember when I first became a Witch. Hundreds of years ago, when I was still what I looked to be. When I was young and nineteen in both face and soul, and discovering the ways of life. Back then, being 'quiet' was not an option.

Steen and I would spend weeks on end rampaging houses, stealing money and buying or abducting men and women to indulge ourselves. We had no rules, no limits – only the overwhelming need to give in to our wants and no longer ageing-bodies. Only ourselves – no one to stop us.

During those times, few were those who would have dared to oppose a son or daughter of Satan. We were feared and respected then, not burned at the stake when others saw fit to end our lives. We were...we were our own possessions. And there are times, nowadays, when I miss the old me.

I know Steen doesn't miss his first self. I still remember, after a kill, once the magic ebbed away and he was able to calm down, he would always regret the bloodshed, the lives destroyed. He was always the one to come to his senses first; the one to stop and say, "No more."

And before that, the lure. The attraction. My fear of power and its consequences. My humanity. His strength. My reluctance to join the world that he so loved.

Till the day he showed me the truth – gave me an insight into what possessing such magic was truly like. What it all meant – the possibilities, the opportunities – the never-ending life.

Two years I held back. Watching. Judging. Hesitating.

Two years that I, at first, felt were not long enough to evaluate my choices.

Live, and die.

Or live. Just live. With no 'and' – no 'end'.

In the end, Steen chose for me. He made me fall in love with him.

And by the time the two years were over, I was ready to follow him anywhere – even if it meant giving up the past. My past.

So I left my parents. Left our home, knowing that, though of course they would have approved of my choice of path, they would have wanted to take on my education themselves. How happy they would have been, to hear that their only daughter, the same person who had rejected their magic for so long, now embraced their cause, and was willing to become a Witch herself... But I didn't want for them to be my instructors. I wanted Steen. And that was all I really wanted.

Within months I had completely and utterly adhered to the cause and beliefs of the witches – had rediscovered myself in the process.

At the time, there were hundreds of witches walking Vorana, girls and boys seeking out apprenticeships with full mages at every corner. We, as young mages, at first got not claims, but past a couple hundred years, once our flurry of enjoyable activities and our bloodthirsty nights had ceased, or at the least died down a little, we, too, were bombarded with demands for apprenticeships.

At first we refused them all, still too busy with ourselves to want to consider having to instruct another. Steen in particular argued that he was not ready to have students as such – but I knew that the main reason for his refusal was his unwillingness to share power. I had been his first companion; the first to share in his years as a mage. He had opened up to me easily, his need for a friend and a mate too strong to ignore. But after that, the levy of his dam had closed, and had remained such, up until and past the present day. Thus, for the first five hundred or so years, we lived alone.

In 4880, we met a seventeen year old boy named Ike. Ike was eager for power. Affiliated with Kratos, the personification of power, and, as we were to find out later, with Phobos, the personification of fear and Kratos' twin brother, his fascination with power was morbid, even for us. He followed us around Vorana for months on end, his Dire Wolf Ruke at his side at all times. Dire Wolves, the companions of witches and wizards, are bigger than regular lupus, sometimes taller at the hip than humans themselves. They are intelligent, more so at times than men and women, and outlive their wild counterparts, their mage companion's magic sustaining their bodies into time. Ruke was a young wolf, just as Ike was, both of them eighteen at the time of their deaths – for yes, they died. And under our guardianship.

Eventually, we accepted Ike as an apprentice, reluctant, but obliged. The boy would not relent.

Three months we had him under our tutelage, and during those three months he would constantly defy our knowledge and authority. It came to a point when, following another of our arguments over his incapability to master one of the most basic techniques of those affiliated with fear and power, he grew mad and attacked his own wolf. Ruke defended himself instantly, used but not content with his companion's anger issues, and drew a permanent scar across Ike's juvenile face.

Ike was traumatised and betrayed, and as a direct consequence his progress with us in relation to his magic fell dramatically. His attempts grew hasty and careless, his frustration growing with every failure that he considered such. Soon enough he was pushing his limits, attempting magic way beyond his capabilities at that point. He killed himself during a precipitated attempt to use his black aura, an ability given to affiliations of both Phobos and Kratos, which lashes out in shockwave-like bursts of fear-laden energy. The aura utterly consumed him, draining him until he was left screaming while his magic still worked, and ended up imploding with the strain imposed on his body in a failed attempt to keep his aura in control. Ruke collapsed not seconds later, following his companion to the grave as his sustaining magic disappeared.

And thus ended our first and last apprentices.

At this point in time Vorana's policy concerning Wiccan belief and non-believers was just beginning to change to change, yet the government knew hardly anything concerning witches and wizard, only that they thought too much and had already threatened the government one too many times. The Miwonians themselves did, as some were even affiliated with certain gods. Affiliations are links that are set up between a toddler and a chosen god, that determine part of the toddler's later personality, physical appearance, and his or her powers. As such, affiliations must be considered and chosen carefully by the parents or parent, as they play an important part in who the toddler will grow up to be.

My parents affiliated me with Zeus, thus where my blue eyes and insatiable temper come from. Steen was affiliated to Ares, hence his love of power and his loss of all control and restraint during rituals and magic-induced highs. Steen also possessed an innate ability to perfectly use any and every weapon he touched, regardless of whether he might have seen or touched it before, along with the power to sense, read and influence other minds around him.

Ike's affiliation to Kratos, had also linked him to Phobos, as was the case with a lot of Kratos' affiliations. Thus Ike was arrogant and power hungry, and thus his black-aura proved too strong for him. His energy too unstable and powerful for him to control. Ruke helped him to keep that power in reign for a while. But once their bond was severed by their argument and Ike's permanent scarring, that hold lessened, until it one day snapped completely. And their death was the consequence – the collateral.

Steen and I have Dire Wolves. We met Nyx and Bane shortly after Ike and Ruke's deaths. Until then we had not understood the importance of the link between a Dire Wolf and his mage companion, but from the day we bonded, we knew exactly why Ike had failed his training. Not because of his all-consuming power, not because of his arrogance or because of his eagerness. But simply because his link with his Wolf was fractured. Bane and Nyx allowed us to understand Ike's failure, and to understand ourselves. From then on, we only grew more powerful with every second spent with them. And they, just like us, loved each other more than words could say.

We lived in Miwako for a hundred years, long enough for the excitement of the chase to die down in Vorana, and soon we returned to the main continents. Not Zolba – we had too dark a past there to risk returning to it. Thadgre became our new home, and for thirty years now we have walked its roads and towns, under different names, different identities, occasionally altering our first names, and always our last names. Our physical resemblance and our simple companionship towards each other made the cover of twins seem obvious, and so that is what we became.

We were careful in choosing our new homes. The new place had to be quiet, but not too quiet so as not to attract attention to our arrival. The town had to house different nationalities; Miwonians, Zolbadians and Kuromkans, with their often unusual names, provided useful cover for our own unusual first names. As for Nyx and Bane, they were not to be seen, otherwise our identity would have been revealed at once. Thus, we took care to choose towns close enough to forested spots, both to hide our Wolves and to be able to carry out our rituals freely. Pon is our latest find.

We're not moving anytime soon. We've been there for only months, joining the Warwick Air University almost instantly. Sarah immediately took a liking to us, bringing her two best friends Laura and Karina with her to create our little exclusive group. They haven't left us since. At times I can't decide whether that's good or bad. But Steen is the first to remind me that they keep us safe. Safe from sight. Safe from questions.

Witches are a complex people. Very few remain to this day, and most have sense enough to hide in whatever places remain for them – caves, deserts, abandoned bunkers. Miwako still welcomes them, shelters them as well as possible, but in the most recent decades, Vertacci and Vrohm, our last two rulers, have made it a point to hunt for witches and wizards on the four continents of Vorana – Thadgre, Zolba, Kuromka, and more particularly Miwako, known as the continent is for its veneration and differing views regarding magic. The fourth continent, the island of Mordre, became the prison island of our world. Beron, once the most prominent and richest city of Vorana, was evacuated, gazed to eliminate the vermin, and before the gas had even dispersed, magic wielders and believers were being shipped onto the island – never to be seen again. The only reason Steen and I escaped that fate was by keeping our profiles low – and by making sure that all of those who could testify against us would keep their mouths shut. It had taken us months to take care of that – months of tracking and hunting and killing – but we had done it. We'd secured our future.

Witches and wizards were rarely good people. Killing became part of your daily routine once you had the power to do it. We were no exception to that rule. Steen's reluctance to killing was nothing when our safety was at stake.

There are times, even to this day, when I remember that the last time I saw another witch or wizard was over a hundred years ago. And at times like these, I become all too aware of the fact that if Steen were not here to hold me back, I would rip the guts out of all of Vorana's inhabitants with my bare hands – and keep a smile on my face the entire time. For what they did to our people, they would deserve as much – and much more.

Much, much more.

X

4900. One hundred and thirteen years ago.

The Feast of the New Century. More particularly, The Witches' Feast of the New Century; always a grander experience than those held by Mortals. I had always disliked these celebrations as a human; now, I would not have missed an opportunity to enjoy the other mages' companies. Strange, how your view on some things can change along with your very nature. The difference was that now I had a reason to enjoy them; I was no longer my father's exhibitioned tool in public occurrences. Now, it was me that these people wanted and invited to their feasts, not my parents. They wanted me here, asked for me – and I was free to refuse or accept their invitation. I was never obliged to go, but I generally did, for it was an occasion that I knew would have a crowd of people, both Mortal and Magical folk, pinning after me and Steen. We were part of the most aged Witches of Vorana, and that gave us a prized place of honour in assemblies everywhere we went.

I loved the attention. I revelled in it, and Steen himself was far from antagonized by it. In that aspect and many more, we were – are – very similar.

As I had expected, heads turned to us as soon as we stepped into the hall provided for the occasion by one of the wealthier magical families, the Penbrooks. I could not blame them for staring. Steen was in a brown leather and velvet old-fashioned tuxedo that matched the colour of his hair, while I was wearing a tight, green satin dress completely at odds with my blue eyes, with a high, triangular cleavage that showed off my jutting collarbone. The rim of both the short, puffed sleeves and the ankle edge of the dress were golden, and on my wrist was a loosely fitted, heavy, thick silver bracelet, adorned with low-relief filigree work. Again: I couldn't blame them for staring. Both of us were striking.

We strolled into the place like we owned it. Steen was, as per usual in public occasions, smirking, while I kept my face that of an ice queen mixed with a deliriously venomous snake about to strike, fangs out. I was aware of the irony of that comparison, considering my choice of vestimentary colouring. Few were those who tried to approach us; their eyes were glued to us, but we had enough of a reputation for them to know better than to try to strike up a conversation with us. The odd persons did step out, but were immediately pulled backwards by those who knew better.

Fear tastes sweet in my mouth, especially when I am its cause. Otherwise it tastes nothing but bitter and acrid.

We joined another room branching off the main ballroom. Here the Elders were assembled, faces strict and square, giving the impression of men and women carved rather crudely out of stone. The eldest here was seven hundred and four, just one hundred years older than Steen and I. We were the second eldest, and as such those with the most authority if old Alistair Verdan were to disappear. Many of those present here did not appreciate that in the least, but the truth of their reluctance was that, outside of the brash, unreasonable blood-*****s that we were on a daily basis, they had no clue who we were – who we would be in times of war and unrest, if we were to lead the clan.

One of them stepped forward to greet us, short black hair spiked and dyed green for the occasion. This was Ayame Mizuko, a Miwonian Wizard and one of the few to be cordial towards us. He was a mere four hundred years old, a youngster by the standards of the assembly. He bowed stiffly as was the custom in Miwako, but the lenient grin on his shadowed face softened the taut greeting he'd just graced us with. Steen and I bowed back to him in his own custom; we had spent some years in Miwako before, and its ways were far from unknown to us. Without a word he directed us to the table that he had saved for us; his vocal intervention would have been unwelcome in this place – it would be taken as a sign of disrespect worse even than his fluorescent-green hair. Personally, I appreciated his attempt at going against the herded tide. The mop of grass on his head was refreshing, if anything else. I knew Steen thought the same thing – through our time-strengthened bond, I sensed an amusement that mirrored mine.

I hauled myself up and sat on the table, cross-legged, while Steen leant against its edge with his arms crossed. I knew the elders expected us to make our excuses for being late, but by now they should really have known better than to expect anything more than sarcasm and scorn from us. This time would be the last; but I didn't know that yet.

"Steen, Storm," Alistair Verdan, the elder, greeted us tersely as Ayame regained his place and we persisted in saying nothing. Verdan was a South-Zolbadian; he'd never liked us much. Steen grinned affrontedly at him from beside me, while I held his gaze with mine. He didn't look down, but neither had I expected him to. Verdan was a strong wizard. He had seen a lot of horrors in his life. None of us could take that from him, even if we didn't appreciate his merciless leadership. He had retained the appearance of a thirty-year-old, but his voice was gravely and throaty, like that of someone who has been used to talking too much and too loudly for all his life.

"Alistair," Steen returned, his voice dripping in sarcasm. The mere fact that he had called the elder by his first name rather than his last name was an affront. One we made often, granted, but an affront nonetheless. Yet it could not be qualified as such without proof, and proof there wasn't. Steen and I had a right to address Verdan by his first name, for the simple reason that he addressed us as such. The fact that neither of us had any last names to be called by did not matter. In the face of strict politics, we had committed no offence, only returned the lack of respect that the elder had shown against us; in the face of civility, the members of the assembly recognized our disrespect, and would act accordingly, but no official measure could be taken against us solely due to it. Steen knew his cards well – and so did I.

Verdan's yellow eyes flashed in brief anger, but the flames receded as he opened his mouth to speak again. "The congregation is thus complete. The assembly may commence. Mizuko Ayame, please proceed with our modus operandi."

The green-haired cadet of the assembly nodded, the smirk wiped off his face, and he raised his hand, producing a roll of parchment inscribed with the fiery names of the Congress mages. He stood from his table, his hand still suspended in the air to point at the hovering scroll. "Delta Stepanova, from North-Zolba!" A blonde with tied-back hair, sparkling blue eyes and a strong, angular face nodded silently, her chin held high and her mouth set thinly.

"Kuuiko Machiwo, from the island of Miwako!" Ayame continued, imperturbable. Again, a silent answer was given, originating from a black-haired man looking about forty-years old who was leaning against a toppled table in a back corner of the room.

"Sabti Kanyar, from the island of Kuromka!" A muscled, sharp-eyed black man with long, braided dark hair nodded silently, those teal eyes appearing to look at everything and everyone at the same time.

"Zambia de Luca, from South-Zolba!" The list of names continued, from the youngest upward. There were thirteen of us in Congress at that time, and ten times as many witches and wizards outside this room. Age was not the sole determining criteria in attaining the seat; strategic and combat abilities were also evaluated and weighed for the younger ones, but any magical folk over five hundred years of age were formally required to join, although it was not compulsory. Steen and I had refused to join for seventy or so years, much to the relief if its members; now that we were here, all that we ever brought with us was tension.

"Steen, from North-Zolba, and Storm, from South-Zolba!" We were always called together. Us being mates, that was one of the requirements. In addition, we were the only members of Congress not to have a last name. Having lived for six-hundred years, we'd long ceased to care what our last names were. They did not matter anymore, this many centuries after our birth.

We responded in the affirmative, and Verdan, who would have been called after us had he not led the council, dismissed Ayame's scroll with a wave of his hand.

And then, the world exploded.

In the time it takes for lashes to brush the cheek during the blink of an eye; in a single rushed heartbeat, the destruction of everything and everyone we knew had been put to the step.

The building rumbled with the aftermath of the explosion that had surprised us all, ominous. Screams began from the ballroom. Screams of pain and fear and horror, and of things better lived without. All thirteen of us jumped out of our stances. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Verdan vanish into thin air, and was thus reminded of his affiliation with Gaia and Ouranos, the first two and most powerful deities of the Greek Pantheon. He reappeared just outside the conference room, and just as his body found its balance in the new space, the witches and wizards around him were thrown back, like the effects of a shockwave to which he was the origin and center point. He raised his hands, and instantly all eyes were drawn to the crumbling ceiling, to the boulders already crashing into the floor and into the bodies of Magical folk.

Steen and I pushed forward. We knew violence, we knew death, we knew pain and everything that went with it. Despite the powers and capabilities of those of our race, not every witch and wizard has seen war, and even fewer had experienced it. Not all of them had seen death in the face and survived to tell the story. But we had. And we had the power, the knowledge – not only to deal with it, but to get out of it alive.

Silently, Steen sent out an overwhelming mental impulse to those around us, those whom he and I both knew could not, would not fight. They fled, leaving the warriors behind, without waiting to know the rest.

Little did we know, by then, that the government's goons and soldiers stood outside waiting for the oncoming wave of helpless Mage folk. Those who ran were slaughtered; those who stayed were either crushed alive under the collapsing ceiling or killed by government fire. Everything had been planned against us – from beginning to end.

We had not a hope.

Ahead of us, Verdan, his stature imposing and dominating the center of the room, had his hands lifted to the ceiling, slowing down its precipitated fall. From behind him all we could see was his trembling back, the shaking of his fingers and the fat beads of sweat already running down his neck and into his shirt. Lifting my own hands, in an attempt to contribute to his efforts, I felt my way upwards mentally, collecting and controlling the air particles that revolved around the falling mass. I pulled the fingers of my opened hands inwards, curling them like claws, condensing the air above me so that the boulders' fall was slowed even further, and bringing the masses together to reduce the area to which Verdan had to extend his power.

As I did this, I was immobile, and would have been helpless had Steen not been there to ward off the soldiers that had begun raining from the open skies where there had previously been concrete and protection – however minimal. At his urging, I shifted my focus, stealing the air from the lungs of the soldiers within my grasp, letting them go only when they fell lifelessly to the floor, frothing at the mouth. Steen himself turned a few of them against their comrades, and divested corpses of their weapons to aim them at the government's pawns.

Around Verdan, three people fought for their lives and his, protecting him as he protected them all. Two were members of our council – Delta Stepanova, the sharp, blonde woman from North Zolba, and Ayame Mizuko, the young Miwonian Mage with fluorescent green hair. The third was a man I'd never seen, with black hair and sharp green eyes, as tall and cat-like as he looked dangerous. Something about him told me to be wary, and yet the way he danced around the elder's motionless figure and warded off incoming blows with a long katana-like blade, quicker and lighter than his figure would have suggested, assured me that he could be trusted. I did not know who he was, but I was instantly sure he knew one of us; no stranger, nor a simple sympathiser to our cause, for I was sure he was no wizard, would have fought to protect us with such ardour.

Stepanova, the Zolbadian woman, was affiliated to Apollo, and used light and sun magic that burned when it hit its target. She could find the energy to use it almost anywhere; even during the deepest night, when there was no light to be found anywhere, she was known to be able to extricate the sun's energy. Nobody quite knew how she accomplished such a feat, for no other child of Apollo had ever managed anything like it.

Ayame Mizuko was one of the most gifted Children of Poseidon, and a fine strategic at that, which were two of the reasons he'd been invited to the Council. He had control not only over water, which was his affiliated Deity's main element, but also over horses and earthquakes, Poseidon's other areas of power. As such, the floor now rumbled under his feet, creating wide cracks in the marble-paved floor that were expertly directed to right under the soldiers' feet. Water emerged from the cracks, uncovered by the quakes, and was then redirected by the Miwonian mage toward the soldiers.

The floor shook under my feet. The air moved, unstable, saturated by magic. My balance shifted, and suddenly, without understanding why or how I'd gotten there, I was on the ground. Steen lay atop me, cradling me protectively, and it was then that I'd realized he'd tackled me to the ground – presumably to get me out of the way of an attack. Confirming my thoughts, I saw him turn his head away from me after he'd checked that I was unhurt, and snarl in the direction of a person standing behind him. He heaved himself off of me, locking eyes with our enemy. I stood too – and the ceiling came crashing down around us.

In my fall I'd lost my focus on the boulders, and Verdan apparently hadn't been able to hold everything up. I looked to where he'd been standing not seconds ago in the center of the room, but my view was now obscured by running figures and crashing boulders. In front of us, the soldier whom Steen had been facing down was caught under a piece of the ceiling that was twice the size of him, screaming for some unnameable pain and thrashing and pulling at his trapped bottom half. Little good that did him. And because neither him nor I were heartless and knew he would not survive, not even if he were pulled out from under that rock, Steen picked up the pistol he'd dropped when he'd tackled me, aimed it at his head, and pulled the trigger.

This had lasted no more than ten seconds, and when Steen moved in to my side again, I raised my hands once more, though I was already exhausted from the effort of holding up the entire ceiling not a minute earlier, and hit up a shield of my making, trapping us in a bubble of slowed air so that falling objects moved slower within it and we were able to avoid them before they fell. We moved at the same time, walking towards where we'd known Verdan, Stepanova and Mizuko to be. Even as we approached the scene, chaos and panic surrounding us and yet standing strangely apart from us, sounds and echoes of crashes coming to us dimmed, the dark-haired human was nowhere to be seen.

And then we were close enough to see, and I stood and stared, cold-blooded though my heart raged and hurled for revenge inside my chest. Seven-hundred year old Alistair Verdan, Delta Stepanova, and Ayame Mizuko, all lay broken on the floor before us, their bodies crushed under tonnes and tonnes of fallen ceiling.

They were unmoving.

And so fell three of the strongest Mages of that time. High up, I imagine that Poseidon, Apollo, and Gaia and Ouranos wept for their prided Children.

When I turned and faced the rest of the room, my power was poised to explode. Rage was etched onto every inch of my face, every tightening of my muscles. I was filled to the brink with it, and when the conjuration left my mouth, it was hissed between gritted teeth. Words came out of me, as though ripping my innards apart, and the sight of Mage folk bodies lying lifeless around us only heightened my fury. I could have no rest, could have no repose until every single one of the government's goons were dead. Beside me, Steen took my hand, and his power flowed into me, thicker, darker, muskier. His, too, was charged with anger and resentment, and his voice joined mine in a chanted incantation of death and retribution.

We were the last Mage folk left standing that night. And I had not a single doubt that, everywhere else in Vorana, right at that moment, every single known Witch or Wizard was being ripped apart by greedy government hounds.

With us two at the center of the explosion, the ballroom, and everything in an area of five miles, was blown up in smoke. For the briefest of seconds, as the shockwave of our released energies spread outward, there was silence – and it was absolute. And then the world came crashing down around the ears of the town, and when outsiders and aids came to look into the debris of what had been houses and streets and life, hours later, dust was all that was left.

Shreve, the capital of Thadgre, was no more, and Steen and I were never found again.

After that, and under Paiger Hammerson's rule, which had begun in 4880, and was to last until 4936, when Vrohm took over, every living Mage on Vorana was hunted down and killed. Even Miwako was no longer a safe place for us. Things only began to grow calmer when it became common belief that all Mages had been killed, and magic completely wiped from the face of the planet. And that only happened fourteen years into Vrohm's reign, around the forty-nine fifties. And even after that, hiding was not an option; it had become a necessity.

Neither Steen nor I have seen a Witch or Wizard alive ever since the Feast of the New Century.

And though we hold the government responsible for the decimation of our kind, we are not unaware of the fact that we both hold our share of responsibility for it.